


Eden, Her Gift

by broomclosetkink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Sherlolly - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yew Bridge is the ancestral Holmes Estate, and the only thing Molly Moriarty has left to live for. Plunging her fortune into restoring the once magnificent and sprawling manor and grounds, morality began to take on many shades of gray when Molly is offered one last chance at happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I love a good ghost story, and A. Beaumont's The Ravensdale Ghost inspired me to the point I sat down and wrote this first chapter in about four hours. I have no idea how many chapters it will be, if the tale will go by quickly or slowly, or even the exact details of the plot. I just had to write it, and I just KEEP writing it knowing only how it will end. So uh, we'll see how this goes.
> 
> Disclaimer: All I own is the idea of Yew Bridge, and nothing else.

_Ridiculous, Molly. It would be cheaper to tear it down and build new._

Spoken three years before, but still Molly Moriarty remembers her husband's words. She had been on the computer, wasting time while the house was quiet. There was an article, something like Grandest UK Estates Fallen Into Ruin.

Yew Bridge is the ancestral seat of the Holmes family, as old as they were once rich. The 20th century was hard on the family, and they lost much of the fortunes. The last remains of this family finally put the estate up for sell, and Molly fell in love with the moldering grandeur of the main house, the wild sprawl of overgrown gardens and woodland.

“But we could save a piece of history,” Molly wheedled, knowing sweet smiles and soft hands worked well on her husband. (Sometimes – sometimes  _nothing_  worked on Jim. She should have known, should have seen the clues...) “Can't you imagine it, Jim? Christian would have room to grow, and when he has little brothers and sisters, they'll have such fun playing in the house and on the grounds...”

“Drafty, dank, and derelict. Nothing but the best for my boy – and for my sweet Molly.” Jim was walking circles, Christian in the crook of his arm. They looked like angels in the sunlight, especially Jim. He has – had – a smile like the sun. His eyes would light up, and his mouth would be so  _soft_ , so  _lax_ , and Molly would fall in love all over again.

She was so stupid. So blind. It still hurts, but she still misses him. Misses waking up with her nose in the crook of his arm, his feet between her ankles; misses the way he pressed his hands to her stomach when she was pregnant, wonder lighting up his eyes as he smiled like the angel he isn't and said, “That's our boy, Molly.  _My_  boy...”

Christian. She feels sick, and pulls the car over on the side of the road. Rushing out, heaving as bile climbs up her throat and tremors take over her delicate frame (she's lost so much weight, can't keep food down, can't sleep, can't do anything but mourn and pray it isn't real). Idly, while she vomits stomach acid, half a piece of dry toast, and three cups of coffee all over her tires and the overgrown grass, Molly thinks about the work that will need to be done on the road.

 

It needs leveling out. Landscaping done around the edges. Does she want gravel laid or would she like it paved? Maybe cobblestones, she always has like the look of them...

 

A car horn toots while Molly is spitting nasty bits out of her mouth. She scrubs a hand over her chin, neck, and cheeks, praying she hasn't got sick anywhere on her person before straightening. She keeps a hand over her mouth, dreading how terrible her breath is – she's got a bottle of water in her car, and a travel kit with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash in her purse.

She's half into her own vehicle when a man steps out of the Jeep parked behind her. Molly's fingers go numb and her mind burns, because he's – he's the most beautiful man she's ever seen. For the first time in years, thoughts of Jim flee. Instead all Molly can focus are blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, lanky limbs and dark curls. There's a flash, lightning behind her eyes and lighting up every synopses and nerve in her brain, and she sees...something.

“Miss? Miss, are you alright?” The man, this wonderfully strange, beautiful man, is hovering just out of arm's reach, now. When did he come so close? He looks worried, and rightfully so.

Wonderful. Now she's seeing things and having fits. Her psychiatrist is going to  _love_  this development.

“I-I'm sorry.” Molly hates the way she sounds, hates how her voice shakes, how she stutters, how she curls in on herself. She didn't used to. Molly Moriarty could walk into a room full of peerage, shoulders back and a smile in place, and make friends through sheer spit, determination, and kindness.

Now she quivers, hiding in corners and shadows. The sunlight burns, and Molly fights the urge to lie down and never get up again. Her tininess, how utterly insignificant and ugly she has become brings Molly back to herself. This man is beautiful, but Jim has ruined her (Jim ruined  _everything_ ). He hurts Molly's eyes, so she looks away, burnt by his kind smile.

“You're Ms. Hooper, I assume? I'm Sherlock Holmes.” He's holding out a hand, long fingered and elegant.

Molly takes it timidly, flinching without meaning to. He's warm. Warmth hurts. It makes her think of living things, then of dead things, and then of –

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I'm looking forward to working together.” Two sentences, not one stutter or stammer. My God, it's a miracle.

“As am I. I'm sorry, but it looked like you were having trouble. Is there something I can do, do you need anything...?” He's honestly worried. He seems sweet – not Jim sweet, which was the sort that was only directed at Molly, but not at all in the end. No, in the end he'd shown himself to be an angel, but a fallen one.

Molly still has the scars. Sometimes she cuts them open again, a reminder.  _You're worthless. You failed. Trust no one._

“Breakfast didn't...um, agree with me. I – I was just going to –” Holding up the travel kit, Molly smiles awkwardly.

“Oh – oh, of course! Please, by all means.” The youngest Holmes son backs away, whistling through his teeth and tucking his hands in his pockets while Molly brushes her teeth, rises with bottled water, and attempts (and fails) to quietly gargle mouthwash.

She feels shockingly human when finished. Well, as human as she can...

He's look at her, taking her in. What does he see? A mousy woman that hides behind her hair, flickering eyes, and curled shoulders; a failure of humanity. Newspaper headlines hanging invisible but damning over her head, television tell-all's and special interviews just beyond her shoulders. Friends, family, employees, and strangers, people Molly never even knew existed, they'd all sold their stories.

They all knew. For years. From the beginning. They all knew, and never told her. Never even  _hinted_. Now the world knows, and Molly is damned.

It's only fair, she supposes.

“I thought I would beat you to the house,” says Sherlock, all easy smile and open eyes. Molly wonders what he's hiding. “But arriving together will be just as good. Shall we continue on?”

“Y-yes. Thank you, for um, for stopping. For y-your concern.” Smiling sickly, knowing it doesn't even come close to looking real, she escapes into her sedan. She used to be so good with people – now she can barely hold herself together.

Molly makes the twenty minute drive to the main portion of the estate in silence. On the way, she thinks of all she has to do, and – as she has from the beginning of this project – feels the only sparks and flickers of life she has been able to bear since her world fell apart.

While her ownership may be only be in portion, Molly is staggered when she sees the grand house for the first time. House! No, it's a manor, something out of a fairytale with dark, dusty corners and little girls that make all the wrong choices.

She has seen pictures, video, even the plans of the house lain out in blueprint form. But she is not prepared for the overwhelming surge of emotional awe that hits her as she steps out of her car and gapes up, up, up; she knows it is in part the remains of a Tudor manor, but the front facade is all glorious Jacobean majesty. Massive windows and thrusting wings to either side, red brick chimneys battling with Gothic Revival spires that spin towards the clouds like hands seeking God, part of a later (mostly unseen) addition to the back of the home.

Knees weak, hands trembling, and mouth dry, Molly finds herself moved to tears. It is splendid. She wants to gather the fading, rotting glory of this manor and its lands up in her hands, yearns to heal it and see it whole and beautiful once more. She imagines the front garden well tended and a riot of color, the reflecting pond pulled free from choking weeds and slime, the weeping willow trailing long fingers in the water.

“I grew up here, and it's still breathtaking to me.” Sherlock Holmes has managed to sneak up on Molly; admittedly not terribly hard to do. Her heart lodges in her throat as she turns, clinging to the door of her sedan and choking back tears.

This handsome fellow stands with hands in his pockets, peering up at the house. He looks like a man torn apart by love, rejected and yet unwilling to let go. He also seems a child standing at the doorway to his dreams, being dragged away by adulthood and yet fighting to stay where he is happiest. “Mycroft – my brother – he doesn't understand why I love this place so much. The house, the land, the history...he doesn't see it. But I think you do, Ms. Hooper. You never would made the offer you did, if you hadn't.”

 

His smile is sweet, hopeful, and blinding. Like looking into the sun. There are tints of ginger in his hair, like sunset fire, and Molly has to look away.

 

“I've never understood tearing down beautiful old homes like this. There's too much here. Too many memories. And it's so  _beautiful_. I've always wanted to save something, so I –” Molly's throat closes. Save something. It hurts to admit this, to look at herself and see her motivations for what they truly are. So she hurries away from the topic, and prays Sherlock will leave it alone. “Will you show me the grounds?” she asks, tucking her keys in the pocket of her jacket, for once forgetting to be small and timid.

 

There's too much to see in one day. 1400 acres of land; forestry, farming, rivers and ponds. What Molly is shown is the gardens. A Tudor maze, which needs much love and care. Molly wonders how many gardeners she'll need to hire, how much it will costs, and then has to choke back laughter.

 

She could spend a lifetime pouring money into Yew Bridge and never come close to emptying the fortunes her husband left her. Lucky, lucky Molly.

A huge old hot house is overgrown and filthy, but Molly aches to see it full of orchids, birds of paradise, flamingo lilies. She remembers her Nana's little hot house, her garden beds, the herb garden. Molly used to love getting dirt under her nails and tending the plants. Maybe she still does, and just doesn't know it.

“How long has it been since the hothouse was updated?”

“It was installed in the...Victorian era, and the last I know it was updated...oh, well, the 1930's maybe?” Sherlock shrugs, looking rather helpless. “All I know for sure is that we were forbidden to go near it when growing up. Apparently a mad old relative – my namesake, actually – he grew God knows what in it. Poisonous plants next to the lilies, or so I'm told. My cousin Anthea swears a plant bit her, once. Hasn't put a foot inside since she was nine.”

There's a rose garden, badly grown but still pretty. An old marble bench peeks out from between wild brambles. Farther on is a Japanese water garden, a massive koi sunning in a large pool connected to a meandering, man-made creek.

“Geoffery,” Sherlock says, pointing to the huge silver and gold fish. “He's been around since Mycroft and I were children.”

A tea house pavilion rises out of the central pond, with two arching bridges connecting it to dry land. There is what seems to be a rock garden, sorely overgrown, and the evergreens seem to be taking over. But Molly is charmed despite how forgotten it has become, and she is loathe to leave the serene area.

“A secret,” whispers Sherlock, eyes bright as he takes Molly's hand, tugging her along a footpath. She's startled – she doesn't like to be touched, not anymore – but he's grinning like a child, and the clouds have passed away to show a blue sky, and it's the first Molly can remember seeing in years.

There's a secret garden. Sherlock has to use his shoulder to muscle the door open, and one rusted hinge busts. It's completely wild and overgrown, but there are statues peaking out, or draped in the filth and grime of many years of neglect, clogged up fountains and the remains of a massive old swing built into a stone arch.

“Are there pictures of it?” Molly asks, one hand pressed tight against her chest. She's afraid her heart will fall out from the beauty of it all. “When it was taken care of?”

“Yes, somewhere. I'll find them for you.”

“Please. I want to know what it should like, so we can bring it back.”

They're like two children sharing a secret, like the children from the book. Molly thinks of Mary, sour and lost and so alone, and she feels a kinship. Maybe she can grow roots here. Maybe she can be happy again.

Sherlock claims a meandering path through a wooded area will take them back to the main house, and so they walk through shadows and slants of afternoon sunshine that spill between heavy branches. It makes Molly think of magic, and she wonders if fairies and brownies live among the trees, are even now hiding in fallen logs and under mushrooms.

Jim hated her flights of fancy; acting like child was beneath her.

“If there aren't fairies living here, it's a complete waste.” She doesn't mean to announce this, but it slips out, unbidden.

Sherlock laughs, but not meanly. Not cruel. Just a laugh. His eyes are green in this light, and his cheeks are rosy and merry. “I have to agree. You know, I was worried about you, in the beginning. But I understand, now. You really do just want to make Yew Bridge beautiful again, don't you? You want to make it whole.”

 _I was worried about you_  – frightened is a more accurate term, Molly suspects. Everyone is frightened of her, now. Even herself.  _Especially_  herself.

Molly remembers to be small, and folds her arms around her stomach, curling her shoulders. She remembers to keep her eyes down, and that laughing isn't for monsters like her.

“Did I say something?” asks Sherlock, but Molly shakes her head.

“I'm very, um...I'm very excited t-to see the house.”

“Of course,” Sherlock seems sad, maybe even disappointed. Gravel is crunching underfoot now, and they're nearly back to his Jeep, which is parked behind Molly's car. “Get your bag, and I'll show you to a room.”

 

\----X----

 

It took nearly a year to finalize the sale of Yew Bridge. Molly's solicitor, also her Uncle Dave,  _begged_  her to reconsider.

“Wobbles,” he pleaded, even using the childhood nickname that generally made Molly cave to his wishes, “please. If you want to buy Yew Bridge, then by all means, buy Yew Bridge. Make into as grand a palace as you'd like. You have the money. But what you're asking for, I don't even –”

“It belongs to the Holmes family,” she firmly countered. She was red eyed, shook nervously, and her hair was falling out. Stress and grief took many trials on her body, but at least she was out of bed. At least she focused on  _something_ , even if it was a derelict estate in North Yorkshire that hadn't been properly cared for since the 1970s. “I want it to remain with them. But I will fund the restoration of the estate, and will legally be co-owner of the estate until I die.”

Even as broken as she was, with Uncle Dave things were easy. He loved her, cared for her, would never hurt her. He couldn't even swat a fly. So looking him in the eye and telling him how it would be (for the hundredth, thousandth time), insisting on what she wanted, it was easy. She didn't even stumble over her words.

He insisted on a clause that at anytime during her life Molly could ask for, and receive, hereditary partial ownership, making the Yew Bridge not only the Holmes' estate, but the Hooper's as well.

There is no point. Molly will have no more children, and her nieces and nephews wouldn't appreciate Yew Bridge. Too old, too musty, too far away from the city. This is for Molly, and when she is finished, it will go back wholly to the Holmeses. She has already decided that the bulk of the Moriarty fortune will go to the estate after her death, a trust to keep it well cared for.

Children die, but the land – the land lives on. It is the only thing Molly can bring to life and keep.

 

\----X----

 

Sherlock takes Molly to the third floor west wing. “We all keep rooms here,” he explains. “I'm three doors down, just across the way. I'm planning on going into the village for dinner, and you're welcome to join me, unless you'd like to cook.”

“N-no, I'd like to see the village. If, um, you don't mind.” This is a painful smile. False and scared.

Sherlock looks sickly, and he turns back halfway down the hall to watch Molly close the door.

She wonders what he thinks of her, before deciding it doesn't matter. Molly's mission is the healing of the land, the gardens and fields, as well as all the beautiful buildings. Her attachment to the Holmes brothers is only a means to the end. She needs their line to take care of Yew Bridge when she is gone.

Molly's room is grand, full of the ruined splendor she's come to expect. Exquisite wood paneling lines each wall, and while the fireplace desperately needs a good scrubbing, the craftsmanship is evident. New homes may be fashionable and easier to care for, but they lack the charm, the style, and the sturdiness. Few 21st century homes will be standing four or five hundred years from now. Yew Bridge will still be sprawling, dominating the countryside.

The bed is a large fourposter, with heavy, dusty drapes and canopy. The bedsheets are clean and fresh, though, which Molly appreciates. She pokes around the room, finding clothing in the wardrobe and dresser. Old things, from the sixties and seventies. Musty and smelling of moth balls. They belong to a young man with wide shoulders and narrow hips, and Molly wonders who it was. A Holmes cousin or family friend? Is he alive or dead now?

She puts the clothing away, and unpacks her own beside it. It feels nice, having her things next to someone else's, even if she doesn't know who he is. There is a desk under the large, west-facing windows, as dark and sturdy as the other furniture. She finds pens and pencils, notebooks and half a written letter ( _My dearest Lia, you can't believe everything you hear. Every old house has stories of ghosts, you know, but logic dictates that only fools believe in such nonsense. Noises are easily explained, don't le_  and there it ends), dried bottles of ink and equally dry fountain pens.

The en suite is not incredibly large, but the clawfoot bathtub is massive and inviting. Someone recently cleaned it. Molly promises herself a long soak soon, but settles on a shower, dancing naked foot-to-foot in the chill while freezing water gushes out of the tap and the pipes scream, groan, and clang in protest.

But when it gets hot, it gets  _hot_. It seems the old boiler is still in decent shape, thank goodness.

Molly changes into simple, comfortable clothing, a skirt and light jumper. Autumn is brisk, and Yew Bridge is drafty. While brushing her hair Molly knocks and prods at the walls, childishly hoping for a secret door – and she finds one.

It opens into a dressing room. Old and choked with dust, but beautiful.  _Heartrendingly_  beautiful. She can imagine a young girl getting ready for her first evening ball here, primping in the gilt lined vanity, spraying perfume from the dusty old bottles.

“I love it here,” she whispers, running a hand through the dust on a chaise lounge, leaving her mark. “I knew I would.”

And she did. From the moment she saw Yew Bridge on the internet, oh, she knew. She imagined it would be a home for she and Jim and Christian, that more babies would come, and she would grow plump and gray and happy here. That her children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would live in the walls of the manor and bless the day that Granny Molly talked her city-loving husband Poppa Jim into buying the old place.

A dream, a fantasy never meant to come true. Now it is Molly's last chance, her last dream. The only one that she will ever see come into its prime.

Sherlock's door is shut, and she can hear the pipes rattling when she steps into the hall. He must be in the shower. Knowing she will get lost, Molly tucks her mobile in her skirt pocket. Sherlock's number is in her contacts; if she can't find her way back or to the foyer, then she'll call him for directions.

( _Imagine_ , a part of her almost laughs with excitement,  _a house so big I need_ _ **directions**_!)

The house goes on forever. Molly wants to get lost, to stay in the winding halls and dark, crooked servant's staircases forever. So much of it has fallen into ruin; oh, so much work must be done. It makes her ache, to see it in such disrepair. But she'll bring it back, and soon.

Molly finds herself on a grand landing, though it isn't the staircase that leads to the foyer, and so Molly has exactly  _no_  idea where she is. She thinks it's the newest addition, the Gothic Revival, but she can't be sure. It's all so confusing and maze like.

What draws Molly attention, and retains it, is not the woodwork, stonework, or fantastic antiques lining the hall. It is not even the Japanese silk wallpaper. It's the portrait.

Much larger than life sized. A man, the most...amazing, captivating man Molly has ever seen. It's Sherlock, but...but  _not_. His eyes snap with a cold, clever intelligence, and his expression is one of boredom. He wears the fine, detailed clothing of a Regency gentleman; elaborately tied cravat, astonishingly well fitted pantaloons with black knee boots to accentuate the length of his legs, a brocade waistcoat and rich blue tailcoat. He holds a pair of gloves, and on the table he stands by is a chemistry set. Behind him is a beautiful fireplace, boasting a skull and – yes, that is a knife sticking out of the wood.

Molly aches to see this portrait in good lighting, to have it cleaned and see the colors as though they are new. She swears the eyes of this Holmes ancestor are watching her, following her, haughty and accusing:  _Who do you think you are? You've no place here, girl, now be gone._

“I'm here to help,” she says, and doesn't even care that she's talking to a  _painting_. “I'm going to fix Yew Bridge.”

No response, and Molly is distantly, absurdly surprised. Honestly, the portrait is so well done she wouldn't be shocked at all if he plucked a book from the shelves behind him and stepped down, demanding to be brought brandy in the study or some such.

“Sherlock Vernet Holmes II,” says Sherlock, making Molly jump, shriek, and nearly come out of her skin. She whirls around, choking on fear and saliva, hands pressing hard against her heart.

Sherlock gives her an amused smile, before looking up to his ancestor. “I used to visit him a lot. I'm the sixth Sherlock. He's the one I was telling you about, the one that built the hothouse and kept all sorts of things in there. He was a genius. He pioneered early forensics, developed a solution that would detect blood even if clothes or a rug or a floor had been washed clean, and was knighted by Queen Victoria and was made a member of the Order of the Garter.”

“Amazing,” whispers Molly, even more awed then before. “I think I read about him school, actually. Bit foggy on it, though.”

“He was brilliance personified. But he had such a sad life, in the end.” Sherlock sighs, stepping forward as though he'd like to commiserate with his ancestor. Molly watches him, noticing how painfully alike the two men are, and also their differences. Sherlock VI has lighter hair, laugh lines and an open, sweet face. Sherlock II is colder, more reserved and haughty, with even sharper features.

“What happened?” Still whispering, Molly wards off a shiver. It feels like he's with them, but Molly knows ghosts aren't real. You die, go into the ground, and rot. There is nothing else.

“Sherlock II was completely cerebral. In his journals, he writes  _the mind is everything, and the body is only transport_. For over thirty years he was celibate, he swore off marriage and women, and focused entirely on science. I've read his journals – he was my hero when I was growing up, it's why I got into chemistry – and I think...I think he was really alone. He only had one friend, a medical doctor named John Watson. He seemed very blunt and...I don't know, awkward? He didn't understand people. Or maybe he didn't  _want_  to, I don't know. But when he was thirty-six he fell in love with a woman.” Sherlock pauses, face drawing into a mask of sadness.

“She was his world. I don't even think he knew what love was before her. But he had some enemy –  _M_  Sherlock wrote, he never gave him a name, and the history books don't have it either. I know, I've looked  _everywhere_ for his actual identity. A few historians have some ideas, you know, but nothing definitive...but what we do know is that this M killed Sherlock's wife. It was very...gruesome. He never recovered, and eventually he died from a cocaine overdose.”

Molly shudders, curling her arms around her stomach. She looks up, into that strange, hauntingly beautiful face, and she swears she can see the sadness he tried to hide. Genius left him cut off from the world, but he found love, found someone who must have understood him...and he lost her.

Molly can understand that, how he felt. They're kindred spirits, she and this long dead Sherlock.

“No use dwelling on the past, I suppose. I'm starved, are you ready to go?” Sherlock's smile is subdued but honest. It is also out of place.

Nodding, Molly follows behind Sherlock as he leads her away. She tries to remember the twists and turns, wanting to find her way back to that portrait. She's going to have it restored, and soon. He doesn't deserve to rot away. This small part of a long-dead man, like the estate he once called home, she can save.

 

\----X----

 

Molly hasn't had a decent night's sleep since she left Jim, and that was nearly three years ago, now. The doctors gave her sleeping pills, but Molly rarely takes them; she's never liked the feeling of being drugged, and she always has nightmares on the pills. Sometimes they're so vivid that she thinks they are  _actually_  real, and it takes hours for the fog to leave after she wakes up.

“I have insomnia,” is all she says to Sherlock – he doesn't need to know the reasons – and follows it with a question. “Will it be okay if I look around if I can't sleep? Is there anywhere I shouldn't go? Family rooms, private studies...?”

“You own this house, Molly,” Sherlock tells her gently, and he takes a sudden – though gentle – grasp on her hand. “You were kind enough to allow my brother and I to retain partial ownership, but it's your money that is going to make Yew Bridge what it once was. You can look anywhere you'd like.”

It's uncomfortable to hear this, and Molly squirms. She knows the elder Holmes brother, a politician by the name of Mycroft, is enraged over the whole situation, and she doesn't want to make it worse. But she is just so... _drawn_  to the estate, and it only seemed right, what she did...

“It's your home,” Molly refutes, “I'm just paying some bills.” She extracts her hand, burning from the touch (she isn't used to such casual touches, not anymore).

Sherlock sighs but smiles, tiredly and with a strange look in his eyes. Molly wonders what he's thinking, as he watches her so intently for a long moment.

“Look anywhere you please. If you get lost – and it's easy to if you don't know the place, especially if you take servant's stairs – call me. It's alright to wake me up, I won't mind. I think my new employer will let me sleep in for something like this.” His smile is crooked, and his wink is boyish.

Molly blushes, and she doesn't know who is more surprised by it, her or Sherlock.

She doesn't want him to call her his employer, but she won't fight him on it. He's an artist, and in his spare time has been restoring murals and frescoes in the manor. Molly is simply providing him a weekly stipend so he can continue his work, as well as guide her through the process of restoring Yew Bridge.

She changes into blue jeans and sneakers – better to explore sensibly – digs a torch out of her overnight bag, tucks an extra set of batteries in her pocket, and sets off. She has no direction, and no idea of where she is going.

It's wonderful.

Not all rooms have been outfitted with overhead electrical lightning, just as not all of them are used often enough to warrant electrical lamps. Molly's torchlight shows her a woman's study with gas lamps on the walls and faded silk wallpaper. It looks like something from the set of an Edwardian movie, down to a discarded necklace on the desk. Diamonds flicker in the beam of her torch, and Molly wonders at how this wasn't found and sold off to pay for a garden or keep the electric on.

It's easy to miss things in a house this large, she supposes.

She leaves the necklace where it lies, though a girlish (and long ignored) part of her wants to try it on. There's a mirror on one wall, dusty and grim, but Molly avoids it. She's been avoiding mirrors for a long time, and there's no reason to stop now.

In another room, Molly finds a massive old steamer trunk that, when opened, is full of nothing but photos. She nearly sits down and begins digging through them right there, but decides to wait. Maybe Sherlock will look through them with her; he might be able to tell her who some of the people are. She hopes there are pictures of the house and grounds, so she can see what it once looked like.

She knows how it appears in her dreams, but she imagines the reality is much better.

Molly thinks she's wandered into the east wing. It hasn't been used by the family for ages, shut up to keep the heating and electrical bill down. There's more dust than ever, and she feels like an explorer. Or maybe a trespasser.

On the second level, Molly muscles open a door that has swollen into its frame so badly she has to fight it for several minutes (though it only makes her want to get inside more). The door gives with a pop and shriek of wood against wood, and she stumbles.

The moonlight reveals a long room, filled with ancient chemistry equipment. Everything is dusty and covered in cobwebs, as though it hasn't been accessed for a long, long time. Molly's flashlight reveals shelves with jars that have exploded, and others still tightly shut and holding... _things_. She doesn't look too closely.

The smell makes her gag, and she pinches her nose shut, eyes watering.

A shiver rolls up her spine, makes the hair on the back of her neck and arms stand up straight. She'd bet money this was Sherlock's, the Sherlock whose portrait she saw earlier. She thinks about that strange, magnetic man in this room, can almost see candles and gas lamps burning, dark curls bent over experiments and boiling liquids.

“Out.” Somewhere behind her, an impossibly deep, stern voice speaks. Molly bites her tongue to keep a scream silent, flailing violently and treading air for several seconds before her feet touch the floor once again. Practically lunging into the hallway, she looks up and down, torchlight following the frantic jerks of her eyes as she searches for Sherlock. He must have followed her, must not want her in here for some reason –

There is a whisper, words just out of Molly's hearing, though she can hear the cadence and tone of the speaker. She shudders, unable to move from the paralyzing mixture of disbelief and fear.

Wind picks up, sudden and harsh, slamming the newly opened door shut behind her. Molly flinches back, the bang echoing down long, empty halls and rooms of this near-abandoned house, and the urge to flee is nearly overpowering. But what is fear to a woman that has already lost everything?

Yew Bridge is all she has left. She can't lose it, not before she's even had a chance to get started.

“I – I won't be scared off,” she announces, flinching at the whimper in her voice and the stutter she can't quite hold back. “Throw your worst at me, but...I'm going to fix this place. I'm going to bring it back to life.”

Draperies framing the large windows lining the hall drift, creaking and banging on their rings and rails. The shadows they cast are long and disjointed, and – much too Molly's horror – one in particular seems to be that of a man, arms folded across his chest and booted feet braced apart in a stance of pure obstinacy.

“I'm not running,” she whispers, because if she tries to speak normally she  _will_  scream. Instead she turns, slowly and deliberately, pouring steel and iron into her suddenly jelly-like knees. Her steps are short and weak, she wobbles a remarkable amount, but Molly does not fall, and for this she is impossibly grateful. Instead she moves down the hall until the wind dies completely away.

For show (and because she needs a moment to gather her strength before her legs give out under her), Molly pauses to examine a table, pretending to test its sturdiness when in fact she is using it to brace herself.

Laughter drifts down the hall, bouncing off the walls and ceiling and rattling the windows. It follows Molly all the way out of the east wing.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks and love go to MizJoely, for being an amazing and perfect beta. And also to nocturnias, for just being plain awesome incarnate. Meanwhile... sorry I took so long to update. Bad Broomy! Bad no no!

Shortly before sunrise, the door to Molly's room opens. Sherlock stands in the doorway, a cutout of faded color against the stark blackness of the hall to his back. Dim, predawn light washes everything it touches into varying shades of gray. Into this Sherlock steps forward. His footsteps are slow, controlled, and eerily precise. 

 

Nearly silent against the hardwood, the sounds of his approach are swallowed entirely by the massive plush rug that dominates the larger portion of the floor. Upon reaching the edge of Molly's resting place, Sherlock stands for a long moment. His arms are held at his side and his head bent, taking in the slight figure under the bedclothes. 

 

Molly sleeps curled on her side, as though attempting to protect herself. Even here she is not at peace, with a furrowed brow and puckered mouth. Thin, bruised eyelids twitch and jerk in dark dreams. 

 

Sherlock lifts a hand, brushing a finger across her jawline. A soft noise leaves his throat, a croon meant to sooth frightened children or wounded animals. The air becomes cold, a frigid breeze blowing up from nowhere as some strange power pulses from Sherlock to Molly.

 

For the first time in years, she stills. A deep sound, something between a sigh and a groan, is pushed out of her chest as muscles unlock. Mouth dropping open, Molly begins to snore very quietly – more of a whistling puff than anything else – her mind emptying of anything but meaningless, random flashes that she will not remember upon waking. 

 

“It's all right,” Sherlock whispers, fingers moving to her hair. “I'll protect you.”

 

He plays with several soft brown locks, seemingly entranced by the way her hair slips between his fingers and over his skin. Soon, however, colors begin to paint the sky outside the windows. He looks up, frowning darkly as the sunrise becomes evident. 

 

As quietly as before, Sherlock steps away from Molly's bedside to slowly and quietly pull the curtains shut. When the room is draped in darkness, he makes his way back to the bed. Bending, his mouth brushes over a single still eyelid and her temple. 

 

Sherlock leaves as quietly as he came.

 

Molly sleeps on, entirely unaware.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Molly's first week at Yew Bridge is a busy one. 

 

Shockingly, it is during this time that Molly discovers she is... at ease. Content. Or as close as she can come to such things, at least.

 

Sometimes the old nightmares visit her, but they are pushed away by sweet unconsciousness and (strangely) the return of a recurring dream. Molly's had it since childhood, though it disappeared after the violence and trauma of the past three years. It is a silly thing, disjointed and without sense. A little girl with a doll, the painted face sweet and pretty; sunshine through summer storm clouds, thin and buttery; stone walls and climbing flowers, ivy curling around long fingers and a man's laughter in another room; embroidery on white linen, a sharp needle and trails of brightly colored thread.

 

It makes no sense, but Molly supposes that's the nature of dreams. She likes that it has no meaning, that no dark shadows or fears lurk in the corners. Most of all it is a comfort from her life Before, and Molly is impossibly grateful for it.

 

More startling than anything else, she thinks that Sherlock Holmes may be her _friend_. He laughs easily and often, and is incredibly intelligent and gifted. Best of all, he doesn't ask questions. Molly can see that he wants to; sometimes the unspoken words fill up Sherlock's eyes, painting his expression with _why_ s and _how_ s and bloody infernal question marks, but he holds them all in check and continues smiling.

 

This is what she comes to associate with Sherlock, a smile. It is not always warm or bright or friendly. Sometimes it is winter cold or a mean slash, almost cruel when dealing with incompetence. Still, it is a smile with actual _emotion_ behind it. Molly likes that. Few people smile around her, anymore. 

 

And yet, she thinks it is fundamentally wrong that he should show the world these expressions. His smiles should be treasures, even more so than his precious laughter. They should be hoarded away, secrets not shown to the outside world. Molly chalks this up to her general instability, which she imagines her psychiatrist would agree with, and tries to ignore these bursts of thoughts when Sherlock carelessly chuckles or shoots her an open, genuine beam in public.

 

Their days are not spent idly. In the massive library, they meet with: contractors, electricians, plumbers, four different restoration consultants, three gardening companies, and seven different interior designers. Four of the designers are rejected outright, as both Molly and Sherlock find their intent and interest to be in modernizing Yew Bridge while keeping only historic elements. And out of the three that remain, Mary Morstan of Morstan Design Co. is the only one that truly understands Molly's vision for Yew Bridge.

 

“Yew Bridge is historic, palatial, enormous; it's a dream of another lifetime and era. The designs I've created for the selected rooms rebuilds them as they were, with elements of modern life.” Twelve rooms out of the eight hundred and ninety seven existing were captured in pictures and blueprints, and sent to each of the designers over a month ago. Mary produces twelve nearly flawless designs of luxury, elegance, and old world splendor.

 

“This would be a fully functional media room, though if you were only passing through it would easily be mistaken for a Victorian parlor. I thought whenever possible we could restore the old furniture. Not just here, but throughout the entire estate.” The blonde appears hopeful and fiercely proud of her designs. She glows with passion, and Molly _knows_ there is no one else more suited to this task.

 

“You're hired,” she announces.

 

Sherlock gapes at her. He is shocked and no doubt somewhat angered, as they had agreed to make all the hiring decisions together... but Mary is the _right_ choice. While Sherlock's family may keep Yew Bridge for the next several centuries, it is Molly's money, determination, and passion that will restore it. They both know that her word is final, and while she has no desire to rub her position in Sherlock's face, she will go over his head whenever necessary for the good of Yew Bridge.

 

Mary turns to her assistant, momentarily stunned. Soo Lin Yao is a beautiful and exceptionally sweet young woman who did not so much as bat an eyelash when introduced to the former Mrs. Moriarty. She gives a fierce smile, dark eyes glowing. While they both do their best to remain professional, their overwhelming joy is obvious. Molly can't keep from beaming at them. 

 

“I rather liked Newman Interiors,” Sherlock comments several hours later. He is watching Molly as she moves around what he terms the 'family' kitchen. 

 

It hasn't been updated since the 1940s, but honestly, Molly thinks it's charming. Yesterday she scrubbed it so hard the skin of her hands were raw, and now all the chrome glitters while the porcelain shines. Though the wallpaper is faded in places from years of sunlight, Molly thinks it looks brighter; she can even make out details of the scenes of men at hunt with their faithful bird dogs. 

 

Not her style, but it is interesting.

 

“I-I know.” The stutter returns. She's been crap at confrontations since she and Jim – well, since Jim. They used to have real ragers: screaming, shouting, shattered crockery, slammed doors. The fights would end with Molly against a wall, or flat on a bed, or Jim pinned down in his favorite armchair... A few times even in a sweaty tangle in the back of the SUV. Molly used to look _forward_ to fights.

 

Now she quivers and shies away, her hands nervous and scared. 

 

“I also thought we agreed we would make decisions together.” Sherlock's voice is so mild. No shouts or rage or words turned into cold daggers for him. 

 

Molly curls in on herself. Without looking at him, she answers, “I know. I j-just...it was right. F-for Yew Br-bridge.” A flare of anger – she sounds like a goddamn _moron_! – and Molly slams a drawer shut. Immediately she cowers, backing towards a corner while shooting Sherlock a look of fear.

 

It is instinctive. She cannot stop it from happening, even though she _is_ trying. Every day, every second. Some traumas leaves scars far too large and vast, however, and Molly thinks she will forever be more mouse than woman.

 

He _watches_ her, pity in his eyes, mouth pursed to speak though he remains silent. 

 

Molly watches _him_ , wondering what he will say… and how disgusted he is with the pathetic woman before him.

 

Sherlock reaches a soothing hand toward her. Without warning he pauses, pupils narrowing to tiny pinpoints as his eyes shift from a soft, pretty green-gray to an electric blue so vivid and deep it seems almost inhuman. His hand drops seconds before he stands, and something about him is – wrong.

 

His posture is rigid. The way he holds mouth with the arrogant jut of his jaw. Even the way he moves, as though filled with a manic energy that boils just under his skin. Advancing several steps, he stops only when he sees Molly flinch.

 

A cold, blinding rage briefly takes his expression over. It is quickly replaced by a sharp sort of... keenness. No, an _awareness_ , as though he is picking her apart.

 

“Both your unconscious physical reaction to my perceived anger and your current physical response – elevated pulse, widened eyes, the tremor your arms and legs – indicate that you expect to be harmed. Obviously the remains of physical and emotional trauma.” Sherlock pauses his odd, rapid fire speech. Mouth curling, his hands unfold loosely, seemingly attempting to catch time between his fingers. Appearing somewhat baffled by his own words, he quietly finishes, “Molly, you must know that despite whatever harm you came to in the past _I_ would never intentionally cause you pain.” 

 

“I-I don't, actually,” is her rebuttal. There is more than a hint of the old Molly coming out. She has fire in her eyes and a strength in her words, though she remains tucked in the corner. “I barely know you, Sherlock.”

 

Reacting as though she attacked him, Sherlock takes a quick step back. His eyes are wide and unfathomable in their emotions, but Molly can see the fine quiver of his mouth and hands. Saying nothing, he still manages to clearly show Molly how _strongly_ her words wounded him.

 

“What are you talking about, anyway, what that… stuff. You sound like a scientist, like I'm a – like I'm a lab rat or something. I've had enough doctors poking and prodding me. I don't need _you_ doing it, too!” For Molly as she is now, the words come out as a shout.

 

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock visibly struggles to gather up words. “I am – you must understand – Molly, it was not my intention to make you feel as though you are my test subject. I simply find that a scientific analysis of your behavior is… easiest. For me, it _is_ easiest. I _am_ a scientist, after all.”

 

“I thought you were an artist,” she responds accusingly. Molly's heart feels like it's going to fly out of her throat. She's had enough of men seeming to be one thing and turning into something else, of being lulled into security and having everything ripped away. She won't allow Sherlock to hurt her, even though he cannot come close to harming her as thoroughly as Jim did.

 

“I am,” he admits, and somehow his eyes are not as bright as they were before. In that the _color_ has changed and shifted once more. “But I am also a scientist. Molly, please, you _must_ understand. Sometimes I – sometimes I can be abrasive, I know, but I am not – I would never hurt you. As you said, you barely know me, but I could never be cruel to you. I hope that we can be – friends.”

 

Sherlock looks so startled, as though he's never thought of having friends before. It pierces Molly, shakes her down to the very core. Is he like her? Two things at the same time, one side always fighting for control? It drives other people away. Molly's family remembers Molly Before, pretty and laughing and unafraid. They dislike Molly Now: haggard, quiet, and terrified of her own shadow.

 

If Sherlock is always like this – smiling and sweet one moment, distant and clinical the next – she cannot imagine that he has very many friends.

 

Perhaps Yew Bridge isn't only _her_ last chance.

 

“I want us to be,” she answers while taking her first step out of the corner. “But there are… conditions. I can't help how I – how I react sometimes. I try, but… you can't be… aggressive when I – I can't handle it, Sherlock.”

 

“I will try.” Sherlock speaks as fervently as a man swearing an oath. “But you must always remember that while I may sometimes seem different or strange, I will never harm you. _Never_.”

 

Stepping closer, Molly holds out a hand. If it trembles, Sherlock makes no comment. He simply clasps her hand gently in his larger grip, almost reverent in how he touches her.

 

“Friends?” he asks hopefully. A flush of something quite like pleasure is reddening his cheeks.

 

“Friends,” Molly agrees, and is startled by how _not_ frightening it is to feel the latent strength in his touch. For some reason – one Molly _truly_ cannot explain – she isn't as afraid of Sherlock as she is of nearly everyone else. She hopes it lasts, and that he doesn't make her regret this choice. 

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Molly and Sherlock decide at the beginning of the second week that renovation and restoration will begin on the east wing. Within a span of four days, they have hired a professional team to pack away all the antiques, valuables, and miscellanea filling these rooms. Everything is cataloged, photographed, and tagged; if Molly wishes, each room can be set up precisely as it was before she had it disturbed.

 

While this is being done, the construction and restoration team go under the entire structure to survey the foundations and cellars. There is work to be done here, Sherlock and Molly are told, though Molly doesn't understand it all.

 

“They're going to strengthen the foundations,” is what she tells her Uncle Dave over the phone. “They said it was mostly going to be minor work, that it was done right and proper in the first place. But things age.”

 

“Even stone crumbles, true enough. I've gone over their expected cost for this, though. Quite the amount for minor work, don't you think?”

 

“And only a drop in the ocean of my bank accounts.”

 

His sigh is long and incredibly put upon. “ _Wobbles_ …”

 

“It's an expensive project, Uncle Dave, you knew this from the beginning. I've hired local wherever possible, and they're going to be paid exceptionally well to do an equally exceptional job. I insist on it.”

 

“I suppose if I insist that I don't want to see my favorite niece tossing her wealth away on rubbish, it wouldn't get me anywhere, would it?”

 

Molly bristles. “Yew Bridge isn't rubbish, and it doesn't matter if you _like_ what I choose to do with the money or not. I'm going to heal this place. I'm going to make it whole again.”

 

“Sweetheart, please…” There is a particularly choked quality to Dave's voice that suggests he is fighting back tears. “I know you're grieving. We all are, Wobbles, because we all lost that boy. But fixing up some decrepit old estate in the middle of nowhere isn't going to bring Christian –”

 

“ _No_. Don't you _dare_ say that!” It takes a moment for Molly to realize she's shrieking, as though she's lost every last bit of her sanity. What could anyone expect, though? “'You all' lost him? 'You all' are still grieving? I carried him for _nine months_. I nursed him and rocked him, held him when he was ill and when he was happy. He held my hands to take his first steps, spoke his first word to me… he was my _baby_. _My_ _ **son**_. I heard his last words and held him as he died – you have no idea – no idea how I hurt – your children are _alive_ , mine is dead! Dead! Dead in the ground!”

 

Hysteria overwhelms Molly. Her mobile is gone. It doesn't matter where, or what her uncle thinks. She screams once, twice, a third time; she pulls at her hair and hides her face in her knees, wishing for an end to it all. She cries so hard she gags, over and over again, and the wet sound brings to mind the way Christian gurgled and choked on blood when – 

 

Molly's head pounds. It is only after Sherlock kicks her door open that she realizes perhaps it was not her head, but his fists on the wood. Had she locked the door? Probably. Locks are second nature now. As though they helped her any the first time around...

 

“Molly? My God – Molly, what's happened, what's wrong?” 

 

“My baby,” she weeps inconsolably, the only way she can think to explain the mind shattering _agony_. Does he understand? It is doubtful. But these are her only words, all she can offer. All she has lost. “My baby, my _baby_...”

 

Sherlock's voice is a beacon in the hysteria. Deep and soothing, he alternates between a tone of calm assurance, detached and clinical observation, and – strangely enough – a broken, ragged whisper against her ear. At some point she realizes he is holding her, pinning her with his own arms and legs. He sways back and forth on the bed, as though she is a child.

 

A man comes. He has a nice face, Molly distantly decides: it's kind. She promptly forgets this when she catches sight of the needle he holds competently in one gloved hand, scratching and kicking in her fight to escape Sherlock's hold.

 

She is given three injections, three sharp jabs in her neck. “My Molly, my Molly,” Sherlock croons, holding tight as the drugs take over and Molly begins to fade to a blessed state of unconsciousness. 

 

Sherlock leaves. Molly is cold, even though she can feel fabric on top of her... a blanket. A pillow is soft under her head. Sherlock put her in bed? He's too kind. What is he going to think of her now? She's mad. Broken and mad. It makes Molly sad, thinking of how he is going to hate her. Unable to move or speak, she cries silently. Tears leak out from under her closed eyelids, wetting the pillow.

 

Molly drifts in and out, and so does her awareness of the conversation happening at her bedside.

 

“…impossible, this is impossible, she looks just like –”

 

“Do not be ignorant, Watson. What else will you say is impossible? Ghosts and specters? Life after death? I do think…”

 

Drifting… 

 

Darkness… 

 

In another life, Jim is singing in the kitchen. The flat smells of eggs and pan toast, and Molly's stomach is growling. Instead of getting out of bed she decides to keep her eyes closed and enjoy the moment. What could be more precious? She _loves_ this man, this wonderful man, and she thinks maybe they're going to marry. 

 

Molly never wanted to marry… at least before Jim. She is a professional dedicated to her job, and marriage would take her away from work. But Jim… he wants a wife and a children. He's been honest about it from the beginning. If she were going to change her mind for anyone, it would be him. And honestly, he has a way of always getting what he wants…

 

“…she doesn't know, does she? About you?” 

 

“John, how do you expect me to explain this? 'So glad you've bought my ancestral home and are pouring your fortune into it! Now, have I mentioned…'” Sherlock's voice fades out, the words becoming indistinct.

 

_I wonder if Jim's made enough eggs for us all_ , Molly worries, caught between memory and reality.

 

Darkness returns, deep and peaceful.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Still heavily medicated, Molly surfaces to the reverberation of violin music. It thuds off the rich wood paneling of the room. Crashing down from the ceiling and shaking the windows in their frames, it comes from all directions at once. Overwhelmed, she moans and presses her hands to her ears. 

 

Body heavy and sluggish, it is a fight to struggle from her bed covers. Standing is even harder, and walking proves impossible. Toppling to the floor she cries, curling her arms over her head. The music an… and _assault,_ an expression of _hatred_ and _rage_ so vast that it makes Molly's soul crack even further.

 

“Stop!” Sherlock shouts. He towers above Molly, the moonlight showing her his expression of fury. “This isn't _helping_ her, you… you _**child**_!” 

 

“What's happening?” she hoarsely asks, trying to cringe away from the terrifying music. “Make it stop. Please.”

 

No sooner does she speak then the screaming and wailing of the violin cuts off. Above her Sherlock trembles, wind blowing curls away from his face. When he looks down, his eyes are that same electric blue as they had been that day in the kitchen.

 

“Molly...” Slowly he collapses down, in a splay of long legs and arms. His upper body curls over her protectively, as though there are monsters in the shadows. Hands hover in the air, close enough that Molly can feel his warmth. “I am sorry. I did not intend to frighten you.”

 

She blinks, too sedated to truly understand what is going on around her. 

 

It seems as though she blacks out for a moment, because the next thing she is aware of is being lain on the bed. She sighs, wiggling into a comfortable position. Her eyes are closed and she is drowsing when the mattress dips, and for the first time in years there is the warmth of a man beside her. She rolls against him, nesting against his chest. Soon his fingers are combing through her hair, and his mouth is a damp, comforting warmth at her hairline. 

 

“I am so… _so_ incredibly sorry, Molly. I searched for him, but he was too clever. He is _always_ too clever… I should have saved you. I should have saved you…”

 

Molly tries to say, _it's okay, Sherlock,_ but sleep drags her down before she can push the words out.

 

 


End file.
